


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by Mice



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Angst, Backstory, M/M, first and third person POVs, h/c, icky upper class assholes, mean relatives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reginald Jeeves was a man who wanted things he was never meant to have; luxury, security, influence, control over his own life. Because he was brilliant and subtle, he expected to find a way to gain them despite his social status. In meeting Bertie Wooster, he thought he'd found everything he wanted. He never expected to lose his heart in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ever-Fixed Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Beta love and helpful suggestingness on plottiness and structure from calccarbonate, random_nexus, queen_fiend and blackletter, who are all made of nine million kinds of awesome with doomsauce.
> 
> Russian translation by Lomi, at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12225846

_Love is not love_  
_Which alters when it alteration finds,_  
_Or Bends with the remover to remove._  
_O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark,_  
_That looks on tempests and is never shaken._  
_It is the star to every wandering bark,_  
_Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._  
~Shakespeare: Sonnet 116

 

I could say that it started a lifetime ago and, on a technicality, I would be correct. I could say it started with Bertie Wooster and this, also, would be correct.

In truth, it started with a telegram.

Mr. Wooster had recently been coerced into hosting a fancy dress ball by several of his friends, among them Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps and Mr. Little. The guest list was extensive and the preparations were of equal magnitude, requiring an immense amount of work to be certain that the event went off well. I had spent much of the past two weeks on these arrangements, above and beyond my ordinary duties, and the entertainment itself was scheduled to begin in two days' time.

I was not expecting Mr. Wooster until after luncheon; his friend Mr. Glossop had visited, demanding some of his time, and I was certain that I would shortly be called upon to resolve some difficulty that had arisen. The doorbell rang at least an hour before Mr. Wooster's likely return, and I answered it, collecting a telegram from the young man standing there. I paid him and briefly examined the envelope, surprised to find that it was addressed to me.

Having been informed slightly over two weeks ago that my mother was in ill health, I could not help the sense of foreboding I felt as I opened the telegram. I had initially been informed that the condition was passing and that she was slowly recovering, but I could not think of anyone else who would be sending me a telegram at this time, nor would her continued recovery have occasioned the necessity for such a notification. My hands trembled slightly as I read.

> MOTHER'S CONDITION DETERIORATING. DOCTOR SAYS TIME IS SHORT. DAY OR TWO AT BEST. AS YOU ARE IN LONDON, YOU ARE NOT EXPECTED. GERALD

Lightheaded, I did not return to the kitchen but sat instead in one of the much closer chairs in the sitting room and attempted to collect myself. My father had died two years previously, shortly before I began my employment with Mr. Wooster, and I had been in France with my employer of the time. I had been unable to return to my parents' home to attend him, nor had I been able to attend the funeral. My brother Gerald was correct in assuming that I would not be able to come to Norwich; it was exceedingly unlikely that I could find someone else to take over the arrangements for Mr. Wooster's entertainment in only a few hours, even on the chance that he might allow me leave to go to my mother's side.

Unable to do anything about the situation, I folded the telegram into my pocket and buried my face in my hands for several minutes. I had too much to do and I could not allow this to adversely affect me or my work.

***

_He'd been dragged bodily into the Servants' Hall by one of the chambermaids and told to wait for his eldest brother, Gerald, the first footman. His brother had entered barely a moment later in a fury, pulling Reginald out of the Servants' Hall by one ear and shoving him into Gerald's bed chamber, shutting the door behind them. "How dare you? Do you have any understanding of what you've done?"_

_"Master Geoffrey--"_

_"Don't speak to me, Reg. Look at you! You could get the entire family sacked!"_

_Reginald backed up against the wall, his clothing still in disarray, panting for breath. Everything had happened so quickly once they'd been discovered. It hadn't been the first time they'd played together; Master Geoffrey was the youngest son of the Earl of Witheringston, fourteen and home from school on holiday. Tall and fair and good-looking, he had been impossible to resist. Reginald was twelve and had been a page for a year now, his father the butler at the Earl's residence. His mother worked as the housekeeper, and his brothers and sisters held positions of responsibility in the staff as well. Master Geoffrey had come to him with sweet words and even sweeter kisses, promising they could have fun and no one would ever know._

_There had been a number of enjoyable interludes, far from the great house. Hedgerows, the boathouse, one of the gardeners' sheds, and the loft in the stable had been the scenes of several hours of mutual pleasure found in touching and kissing one another._

_"But Master Geoffrey told me--" Master Geoffrey had promised to take care of him and, even at his young age, Reginald knew it was a good thing for a servant to have the favor of a family member. He'd trusted that promise, but it had turned out to be nothing but pretty words. Pretty lies. The betrayal burned like the coals in the kitchen stove._

_"It doesn't matter what he told you, Reg. You're a **page**. No one cares what Master Geoffrey told you and they are certainly never going to believe you if you try to tell them he led you on. They'll call you a liar and you'll still be punished for it, probably worse than if you say it was your fault. Father's doing his best right now to calm His Lordship enough to keep the rest of us on, but you're out on the next train. I heard Mother on the telephone arranging a position for you at the girls school in Dorset where Aunt Annie is the Matron." They were going to send him away to work for Aunt Annie. Everyone hated Aunt Annie. Gerald's voice held a venomous anger, barely restrained, though he spoke quietly. He paced like a hungry tiger across the small room as Reginald quickly refastened buttons and tucked the tails of his shirt back into his trousers._

_"This isn't fair!" Reginald snapped, deeply afraid and covering it with his anger. "I don't want to leave!"_

_Gerald wheeled on him, taking him by the collar, and leaned down until they were nose to nose. "Fair has nothing to do with this! Do you think it's **fair** that a little sod like you has managed to endanger the entire family's livelihood? You'll be lucky if His Lordship doesn't have you beaten bloody first, Reg!" He rose up and Reginald flinched, raising an arm to cover his face, wondering if his brother was going to hit him. "He'd be entirely within his rights." Gerald grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. The back of his head struck the wall with a crack, sending a jolt of pain through him and leaving him dizzy._

_"Stop it, Gerald! You're hurting me!" He grabbed Gerald's wrists and struggled fruitlessly against the rattling of his bones. "Stop it!"_

_"You aren't worth risking the whole family over." Gerald's voice was deathly quiet as he stilled his violent motion and Reginald shivered, his eyes wide with his fear. "You'll leave when we put you on the train, and you'll be grateful that it's not worse than that. If you've got us all sacked, it **will** be worse than that, believe me. I never want to see your face again, you little traitor." There was a finality in it that chilled his heart. He wondered if he'd ever be able to see his parents again. He wondered if they'd even want to see him._

***

I should have realized that I would not be able to conceal a thing of this magnitude from Mr. Wooster. While he could never be accused of intellectual brilliance -- except, perhaps, in comparison to some of his friends -- he possesses a remarkable ability to read my emotional state from the smallest of cues. I have always prided myself on my inscrutability; it is necessary for any skilled servant to be able to maintain an absolute outward calm and poise, regardless of circumstances. Mr. Wooster himself has often commented on my complete imperturbability in moments of crisis. Yet, from the mere tilt of an eyebrow or quirk of a lip, Mr. Wooster has repeatedly been able to discern volumes regarding the emotions beneath what he refers to as my "stuffed frog" mask.

I had barely finished putting Mr. Wooster's coat, hat, gloves, and walking stick away when he stopped in mid-sentence. "Jeeves?" he said, giving me a piercing look. "Jeeves, old fruit, you have the look about you of a chap who's just been flung out of an aeroplane from a rather substantial altitude. You're really looking quite pale. What on earth is wrong?"

"It is unimportant, sir. I shall be better directly." I attempted to solidify myself into a mask of emotionless calm, but I could not.

He reached out and took me by one elbow. "Why do I have the uncomfortable feeling you're lying to me, Jeeves?" He led me into the sitting room. "Come and sit down before you fall over, old thing." His voice was soft and concerned and there was worry in his expressive face. I sat, as he commanded me. Taking a deep breath, I attempted once again to conceal my emotions; my failure was entirely distressing. He reached out and touched my cheek as I turned my face away from him, brushing a tear from my skin with a tender gesture. "Good Lord," he whispered. "Jeeves, what's happened? Please tell me."

I was afraid to speak, lest I lose all control of my emotions, so I reached into my pocket and handed Mr. Wooster the telegram. He read it at a glance and sank slowly to his knees next to me. "Unim-- My God, Reggie, this is not unimportant. This is the furthest possible thing from unimportant I could ever imagine." He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. I let my arms slip around him, desperately attempting to keep my composure. "What on earth does this Gerald bird mean, that you're not expected?" He could not conceal the shock in his voice.

"I cannot go," I said, my voice rough and harsh with suppressed tears. "My duties here--"

"Duties? That's absolute rot!"

"There is not enough time for me to find someone to continue the arrangements for--"

He looked up at me, taking my face in both hands. "Dash the party, Reggie. I'll cancel the bally thing. You have to be there. Take the two seater; it'll be quicker than the train, I'm sure."

"But, sir, I cannot disrupt your life in such a way." My duty was here, with him, no matter how much I wanted to be with my family right now.

"No," he snapped, suddenly angry. "No, damn it. You only have one mother, and you're going to be there for her."

"After all the effort you've put into this, sir?"

"I didn't want to have this blasted fancy dress thingummy anyway. Even if I did, I can't possibly ask you to stay here and work while your mother is dying. I just -- do you have any idea how much I wish I could have seen my parents just once more before they died?" Mr. Wooster appeared to be on the verge of tears himself at this. While I knew he had been an orphan for many years and had been raised by his aunts, I did not have many details about his parents' deaths, for he never spoke of it. "Th-there was an accident, you see. I was off at school when their motorcar went off a bridge and..." He took a shuddering breath. "Nobody even came to bring me home for the funeral," he said, his voice hard and angry. "They were all too damned _busy_ to bother with me!" he spat. "I was only eight," he said; I could hear agony and the fury behind his words, and a resentment that boiled beneath all of it. "I'm not doing that to you. You can't possibly think I'd be that much of a bastard, Reggie, to keep you here for some dashed fancy dress party with this going on."

I pulled him to me, shaking my head. "No, sir," I whispered, still struggling futilely for control of myself and my emotions. "No, I've never thought you were at all like that. I just assumed that my duty to you took precedence, and--"

He kissed me then, carefully and with deliberation. "Even if we didn't have this... this whatsit we have between us, I would never have kept you here for that. It just wouldn't be right." He rose, extricating himself from my embrace, and offered me a hand to assist me to my feet. "Dash it," he said, "you don't look like you're in any shape to deal with this at all. I'll drive. I wouldn't want you to be hurt trying to get out there. Wherever 'there' is, I mean."

I stared at him for a moment, stunned by his offer. "Sir, that would be entirely improper. You're my employer and if you were to arrive with me--"

He glared at me. "I don't care. They don't even have to know I'm there. I can biff off to some inn down the road or something and leave you to be with your family. It's all right, Reggie." Did he really care for me that much? It didn't seem possible. Certainly no one else ever had. But Mr. Wooster was exceptionally kind-hearted and I was sure this was just an act of friendship on his part. It must have been, for it could not be anything deeper. The alternative was quite unthinkable; he was a gentleman and I was a valet and, despite the fact that we occasionally shared a bed, there had been -- there could be -- no deeper emotion involved.

"I... Yes, sir." I could not help the gratitude in my voice. "I shall see to the packing immediately, sir."

He nodded. "I'll write up a telegram: 'sorry all, party cancelled, emergency sitch, _etcetera_ and whatnot'. I assume you have the guest list somewhere around here. I'll just give it all to Jarvis and have him take care of it for us."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." I was certain Mr. Jarvis, our doorman, would handle it swiftly and efficiently. There was a great yet deal to do, and very little time in which to do it.

***

_The silver beneath his fingers blinded him, even under the dimmed lights of the kitchen. The scent of the polish rose and nauseated him, making his head swim. His eyes could barely focus and his head blazed with fever and pain. Sweat stood out on his brow and trickled down his neck and his chest as he continued the tedious and entirely too demanding work of polishing the tea set. He hoped he wouldn't need to vomit again soon; there was too much work to do._

_Reginald rested for a moment, leaning heavily against the table as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. His every joint and muscle ached and his exhaustion weighed on him like leaden anchors attached to every limb. He wanted nothing more than to simply lie down with an ice pack on his head and sleep for a week, but he could not. Closing his eyes, his breath rasped as he coughed uncomfortably, intensifying the dull throbbing of his head._

_The master's bell rang and Reginald heaved himself unsteadily to his feet, pausing a moment for a breath to try and brace himself. He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and made his way to Mr. Todd's office. "Yes, sir?" He sounded like a mere ghost of himself, his stance wavering slightly as he stood as attentively as he could manage before his employer's desk._

_Mr. Todd's eyes narrowed. "You look a mess, Jeeves, and you're slowing down. Breakfast was fifteen minutes late this morning. That's completely unacceptable. I expect you to correct this. I can't have you sleeping on the job. There's entirely too much to do for you to be lazing about and neglecting your duties. If you're not going to perform them competently, I'll dock your pay this week."_

_"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I shall correct the lapse directly." He attempted to stand straighter, only managing to dampen the tremors in his aching muscles slightly._

_The man gave a rough snort. "You'd better."_

_"Very good, sir." Reginald wondered idly if pure, liquified spite ran through his master's veins. He considered slitting the man's throat to see if it were the case and dismissed the notion as a feverish hallucination. He hoped he wouldn't collapse before his employer allowed him to leave the room._

_"I need you to deliver this packet to Lord Benningfold," Mr. Todd said, holding a manila envelope out to him._

_Reginald nodded and took the envelope in one trembling hand. "I shall have a messenger attend to it immediately, sir."_

_Mr. Todd shook his head. "No, it's far too important to trust to anyone else. You're to deliver it yourself, Jeeves, and await Lord Benningfold's reply."_

_He blinked but quickly recovered himself. "Yes, sir. I shall see to it at once." It was a miracle that he was still on his feet, and Mr. Todd wanted him to deliver the packet himself?_

_"See that you do," Mr. Todd snapped, favoring him with a glare._

_Lord Benningfold lived nearly an hour away by taxicab. Reginald looked out the window as he passed through the sitting room toward the foyer. It was snowing, dim and wet with sleet in the early afternoon. As the light faded and the temperature dropped, everything would freeze and the roads would be dangerously icy by the time he could return. The trip would take even longer under these conditions. With a shuddering sigh, Reginald bundled himself as heavily as he was able against the weather. The last thing he needed was to develop pneumonia because of this, but he could not refuse to perform the task, despite the influenza that had plagued him for the past two days. He had no doubt he'd be sacked if he attempted to do so, and he was not quite ready yet to find a new employer. Mr. Todd was not a pleasant man; he had a difficult reputation even among the gentleman whose money he managed. Reginald's experiences in working for him had been uniformly miserable and he had been meticulously planning his departure for two months now. Timing would be critical; he needed at least a week more for the seeds he'd planted to come to fruition. He wished his head would clear and that he could think._

_When he recovered from his influenza, he would hand in his portfolio and seek another position. There was a small envelope hidden beneath his mattress that contained enough information to end Mr. Montague Todd's career with a spectacular scandal, and he intended to use it. Bracing himself against the horrifying weather, Reginald staggered out into the street and hailed a cab. At least he would be able to sit and rest during the trip; perhaps he would be able to sleep. He would ask the driver to wake him when they arrived at his destination. He hoped it would be enough._

***

My eyes were on Mr. Wooster as he drove, though I did not watch him directly. He had needed to ask for our destination; he knew very little about my family or my own origins, beyond a few amusing anecdotes I had seen fit to share with him for his edification. My mother's residence was a small flat in Norwich, not far from the bookshop in which she had been working after my parents retired from their duties as butler and housekeeper at the home of the Earl of Witheringston.

The understanding between myself and Mr. Wooster had shifted for me and I was not certain when or how it had happened. I liked the man, certainly. It would have been difficult not to. He is cheerful and has an easy charm about him that can be quite enchanting. Mr. Wooster is a rather handsome young gentleman as well; I have seen both men and women watch him with an appreciative eye. His looks and his charm had both been factors in my choice to approach him, but they were not the root of this newly recognized emotion growing within my breast.

The warmth and, dare I say it, tenderness I felt toward him had been there for some time, but I had not been cognizant of them, nor had I grasped their depth. I'd thought it mere fondness, mingled with respect for his sense of honour. Watching him now, as we drove across Norfolk, I realized that this emotion had grown into love without my knowledge or understanding. I had not thought myself capable of it, for I had never felt it before -- not as I felt it for Mr. Wooster.

I was familiar enough with familial love. I loved my parents and my niece, Mabel. I respected my uncle, Charlie Silversmith, and enjoyed the company of most of my other relations. Although my relationships with my siblings were somewhat difficult, I possessed a certain family feeling toward most of them as well. None of those emotions described what I felt for the man sitting here beside me.

I could not fathom this sea-change, this transformation of my regard for him into something rich and strange. I was uncertain whether I could trust my emotions at all, given the intensity of them due to my mother's swiftly impending death. What objectivity I might have possessed had been shattered by the day's events. My thoughts, such as they were, were interrupted by Mr. Wooster's voice.

"I say," he said. "You've been awfully quiet, Jeeves. Do you, well, need to talk at all, old thing?" He looked at me briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"I don't know, sir," I told him.

"It's just that usually when we're driving about together, out to Brinkley Court or wherever, there's a bit of chatter and whatnot, you know? It seems rather odd not to. But, I mean to say, if you just need to think about things, don't let the young master disturb you." He reached over and briefly pressed my hand with his own.

I gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Perhaps it might help, sir," I answered. "I will admit my thoughts are in a more chaotic state than is my usual habit."

He nodded. "Would it be all right if I asked a few questions? Other than this one, I mean."

"Of course, sir."

He offered another cautious glance at me from beneath the brim of his hat. "I've been thinking a bit, Jeeves, and I realized that I don't know much at all about you. I mean to say, I know it's not exactly the done thing, but we do have a rather chummier arrangement than most gentlemen and their personal gentlemen, after all." I nodded and he continued. "So what I wanted to ask was, would you tell me a little about your parents? Would that be all right?"

The question was so tentative, and so gently asked, that I did not feel I could refuse. I knew a great deal about him, of course, for it was my job to do so, but in some ways we were as strangers to one another. Through the turmoil of my emotions, I wanted to be seen by him, to be understood and accepted; I wanted him to know me as more than a servant, despite the impropriety of that desire. "My parents were, for many years, the butler and housekeeper for a very large household," I began.

"Ah, so that must be where you learned to buttle and all that," Mr. Wooster said.

"It did begin there, sir," I said, "though my employment began as a page at a girls school." There was no need for him to know of my early disgrace, nor the shadow it had laid over my family for several years following. "They both retired some years ago and moved to Norwich; my father died about two years ago, sir, shortly before I came into your employ."

"Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"He had lived a long, full life, sir." He had, in fact, been just over eighty when he died; I was the youngest of his sons. "My mother had, until recently, been working in a bookshop, where she had been quite content. It was her love of reading that inspired my own. Most of my relatives are quite interested in literature, sir, and I recall my Aunt Emily reading the American writer, Oliver Wendell Holmes, to me as a young child."

"I remember you mentioned that once."

"Indeed, sir. My mother fostered this love of literature from a very early age. She always gave me a book for my birthday, sir. She had been doing so from the time I was three."

Mr. Wooster's eyebrows rose. "Three? Really? I say!"

"Yes, sir. I was somewhat precocious as a child."

"I'm not sure I even remember being three," he said.

"Not many individuals do, from what I understand, sir."

"I suppose you were nibbling away at the fish, even back then, what?"

I could not help the smile that touched my lips at that. "Indeed, sir." He glanced at me and smiled, seeing that I was. Some fragment of the tension in his shoulders slipped away.

"Are all your family quite so brainy, Jeeves? Heads sticking out at the back and such?"

"We are all possessed of ordinary intelligence and common-sense, sir." Sadly, Mr. Wooster's friends had very little of either. "The habit of reading improving books has, I suppose, allowed us to develop what we were given at birth."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid this Wooster is better suited to a corking mystery or a crime thriller," he said. "I had more than enough of that improving books wheeze when Florence was flinging them at the old onion."

"Indeed, sir. Perhaps _Types of Ethical Theory_ was a rather steep slope for an introduction to such things." I had seen him making recent efforts to improve himself, but this activity had to be encouraged with subtlety rather than brute force. I had enjoyed setting my mind to that task and had been pleased with the results. Contrary to my earliest impressions of my employer, Mr. Wooster was not mentally negligible so much as disinclined to seriousness or deep thought. In contrast to many of his friends he could, in fact, be considered quite intelligent and rather resourceful.

And, I realized, he had rather a strong sense of emotional acumen as well. It wasn't simply that he read me exceptionally well, but he had, in fact, managed to calm my nerves considerably during the course of our conversation. I felt an upwelling within me of gratitude and a surge of that warmth I had identified as love and found myself nearly overwhelmed. At my pause in the conversation, he turned to me again, his eyes curious and searching. "Will you be all right?" he asked softly.

"Eventually, sir." I felt somewhat adrift, uncertain of what my place truly was with him, of what I wanted that place to be.

His hand once again rested on mine for a moment and he nodded. "Well, then. I just, you know, wanted to be sure. That you would, I mean." Seemingly satisfied by my answer and unwilling to pry, he left me once again to my thoughts.

***

It was late evening when we arrived at my mother's home. I pointed the building out out to Mr. Wooster and he pulled up to the curb, turning off the engine. "Do you want me to come in with you, old thing?" he asked. "I mean, I suppose it could be rather awkward, my being your employer and all, but if you wanted me to, I would."

I hesitated for a moment, wishing that he could, but it would indeed have been very awkward. "No, sir. There is no need. You have done more than enough in allowing me time for this, and bringing me here yourself."

He nodded, getting out of the car with me and walking me up to the door. "There was an inn about a mile back along the road," he said. "I'll get us a room with a couple of beds. I know you're going to be here until... well... But after that, you're going to need to get some sleep and this," he looked up at the building, "looks like it's going to be too small to keep everyone who's no doubt going to be here."

"That is true, sir," I said. Not everyone would be able to make it, but the flat was a small one and those few rooms that could offer sleeping space would be reserved for those who had traveled furthest. I was not one of those individuals.

"If you need me for anything, Jeeves, call me there. I can come to get you any time you might want. Let me know if there's anything at all I can do to help, would you?" The concern on his face touched me deeply and I wished that we were in a private place, for the warmth of his arms about me would be reassuring. I was not looking forward to facing Gerald and I could already feel the tightness in my chest that inevitably heralded an encounter with him.

"Thank you, sir, I shall." I turned to go, but he reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder, stopping me for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Reggie," he said, his voice soft and very kind.

"Thank you," I whispered, taking a deep breath to avert the tears that were far too close for my comfort. His fingers tightened and then he let go, giving me a last, concerned look as I turned away. I heard him start the car and drive off as I knocked on the door.

My eldest sister, Margaret, answered the door. "Reggie," she said, surprised. She took my hand and pulled me inside, taking my coat and hat. "We didn't think -- Cathy! Gerald! Reg is here!" Catherine was my other sister, a few years older than me. She came hurrying out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron before she embraced me.

"Oh, Reg, you made it! Mother will be so relieved." I held her in my arms and rested my chin on her shoulder.

"You're here." Gerald's rough, deep voice was quiet but it dominated the small room. I looked up at him, not releasing my hold on my sister.

"Mr. Wooster was kind enough to grant me time," I said. His face was deeply lined and there were shadows beneath his eyes. I knew he had been taking care of Mother since her illness began; he must have been exhausted. "I won't be in your way, Gerald. I just want to see her. Please, let me help if I can."

Catherine gently extracted herself from my arms. "How long can you stay?" she asked me.

"I will be here until after the funeral," I said. It wouldn't be more than a few days, at most, if Gerald's telegram had been correct.

"Mabel and her husband will be here shortly," Margaret told me, taking me by the elbow and leading me into the kitchen. "Jack and Patricia are coming tomorrow morning. Uncle Charlie can't get away from Deverill Hall." She sounded justifiably bitter. He was the only one of Mother's siblings still alive. "Queenie's boy Freddie is down with a flu, so they won't be here either. I'm just glad this new gentleman of yours let you have some time, Reg. He seems a decent one, this one."

I nodded. "He is." Gerald was on my heels as Margaret handed me a mug of tea, leading me to a chair and making me sit. "Thank you, Meg." I shed my jacket and hung it on the back of the chair, as the kitchen was quite warm from the fire in the ancient coal cookstove.

"She's sleeping right now," Gerald said, towering over me as he looked down in disapproval. "I told her I didn't think you'd make it, after what happened with Father."

I sipped at my tea, biting back on my instinct to respond with a sharp, defensive attitude. It had always been difficult for me; he had never forgiven me for my youthful transgression. I kept my voice even as I spoke. "You know that Mr. Todd was unwilling to grant me leave. We were in France, Gerald; I wired you. Had I been able to come, I would have."

"At least it won't all fall to me and Jack this time," Gerald grumbled.

"Please, Gerald," I said, tired and apprehensive. "I don't want to fight with you."

"Leave him be, Gerald," Catherine said. "He's here now. Let Reg help." Margaret made a small, sharp gesture with her head and Gerald followed her out of the room. I set down the mug and buried my face in my hands, wishing yet again that I could erase the past, that I could have been made differently, that I could even pretend that women appealed to me. Catherine sat next to me and put an arm around my shoulders as I listened to the soft, indistinct voices of my brother and sister arguing in the sitting room, across the hall from the kitchen. "It's all right, Reg. It's Mother you should be concerned about, not grumpy old Gerry. He's angry at his own kids because they can't be here either."

I looked up at her, still struggling with tears I could not allow to fall. "I know she's asleep, but may I at least sit with her for a while?"

"Of course, Reg. They'll be at it in there for a while yet, I'm sure, and I'm sure Pete and Martha will leap into it with them at some point." Pete and Martha were my siblings' respective spouses, whom I assumed were in another room, as yet to join the fray. "Meg was hoping you'd be able to come, even with all Gerald's saying you wouldn't." She rose and offered me a hand. I took it and picked up my mug in my other hand. "Come on, then. She's upstairs."

"Is anyone with her now?"

"Uncle Cyril."

I nodded as we ascended the stairs. The hallway was dimly lit and the door to Mother's bedroom was open slightly. Catherine tapped softly at the door. "Come." Uncle Cyril's voice was weary and dull. Catherine opened the door and gestured for me to enter. Uncle Cyril smiled when he saw me. "Well, then, young Reg, you made it. It's good to see you." He rose and rested his hands on my shoulders. "It's been a good long while since I've seen you, lad. You're looking well."

"Thank you, Uncle Cyril. I'm very pleased to see you." He was so much more elderly than I remembered him, so much more fragile-looking. He'd been a large man once; now he seemed as though he might be made of spun glass and silver. I looked briefly at Mother, lying frail and still on the bed, raised up on a pile of pillows to help ease her harsh, rattling breathing. "How is she?"

He shook his head sadly as his thin, knotted hands fell back to his sides. "It'll probably be tonight," he said sadly. "I just hope she wakes again so she can see you." Those quiet, regretful words broke the fine thread of control I had been clinging to, and my tears finally fell, running hot down my face. Uncle Cyril took the mug from my trembling hand. "Sit down, boy, sit down. Won't do to have you falling over." I nodded and did so, unable to speak. He placed my mug on the bedside table, close at hand, and bent down to press a dry, avuncular kiss to my forehead. "You dear thing. I'm sorry you couldn't be here when Bill died, Reg, but we all know the realities of being in service. It wasn't your fault, no matter what Gerald says. You shouldn't take your brother's words so much to heart."

"Mr. Wooster is a much kinder man than Mr. Todd was," I said, my voice shaking and barely recognizable. I wished Mr. Wooster were with me now, foolish as that desire was on so many levels. Even his simple presence would have been some comfort.

"I'll leave you with her, lad. If you need anything, you just let us know." Uncle Cyril patted my shoulder and turned to go.

"Thank you," I murmured. He left me alone with my dying mother and my tears.

***

_Reginald stared out the window into the rain, a volume of the poetry of Robert Burns open on his lap. He had a little time this afternoon, away from Aunt Annie and the hideous girls whose presence he endured; they tormented him unmercifully and Aunt Annie did nothing to stop them. He hated working at the school, though he always did his duty with absolute precision. No one ever had cause to complain about his work or his comportment. He still missed his parents, even after more than a year away from them. He knew he could never go home again after what had happened. At least he had books; they were dependable companions, unlikely to turn upon you or strike you._

_He would be a valet when he was old enough to leave the school and find other employment, he'd decided. Working in a country house didn't appeal to him; they were much too isolated and there was very little privacy from the other servants. He would prefer to work for a handsome young gentleman in London, one who enjoyed travel, who read improving books, who thought about philosophy and history and politics and other matters of import. Perhaps, if he were lucky, said gentleman might also share his proclivities. He might regret having trusted Master Geoffrey, but he had never regretted the pleasure they'd had together. It still filled his dreams at night._

_It was dangerous, of course. That much he'd experienced for himself, and he knew he'd been lucky. The Earl had broken Reginald's nose when he'd beaten him, but it could have been considerably worse. He would have to be extremely careful; no one could know what he was unless he was quite certain they were like him. He knew they sent men to gaol for being like him and that he'd have to guard himself constantly, but a valet did not have to be married, at least. A valet had valid reasons to be close to other men, dressing them, shaving them, serving them in the bath, or providing them with an invigorating massage. The thought appealed to him greatly; it was a legitimate excuse to touch another man, even if it were not quite the sort of touch he would prefer to share._

_It would be advisable to work only for unmarried gentlemen, particularly those who lived alone. He didn't want to have to answer to anyone but his gentleman. Married men would obviously not be like he was or, at least, there was a far lesser chance of it. Nor was he inclined to infidelity. He'd seen the way some of the other servants had carried on with one another and the troubles it had caused. Such things would be too likely to draw the wrong kind of attention for his tastes. No, it was best to avoid married men entirely._

_Everyone in the great houses answered to the butler or the housekeeper and Reginald wanted more freedom than that. He'd seen how belowstairs politics worked and how people could make things look like miscommunication to get others into trouble and he wanted none of it. Aspiring to become a butler would trap him in one place and lay upon him the responsibility of supervising a household full of other servants when he eventually succeeded. The books he'd read had given him a desire to see foreign lands and experience new things, and he could never do that if he worked in a country house. He had seen that his parents rarely had holidays, and when the Earl and his family traveled, the servants remained at the house. Only a valet and a lady's maid would travel with the master and his family, and the tales those fortunate servants told upon their return had fascinated and enthralled him._

_Reginald supposed that some young men of his disposition and aspirations might prefer to reject the idea of service altogether. He had read in the newspapers about socialists and communists who believed that the class system should be dismantled, but it seemed terribly crass to him. It felt far too chaotic and unpredictable -- anarchic, even -- where Reginald preferred order and control and a certain feudal propriety. There was no elegance or sophistication in any of the men in those newspaper articles, nor had they any sense of style whatsoever. They spoke of equality, but they did not mean raising servants and common workers to nobility and refinement; they wanted only to tear the nobility down and make everything equally ugly and sordid. They were uncouth and uncultivated and Reginald had been taught to respect tradition and the grace that came from impeccable service to an appropriate aristocrat._

_There was an elegance in that world that he loved with all his heart, and he wanted to find it again. He had enjoyed the formality and the ritual and the beautiful things that surrounded him: silver and crystal and delicate bone china and hand-knotted Persian rugs and perfectly bound books. They may not have belonged to him, but he could see them and maintain them and admire them every day and in that sense they were his. While his own family had not had food quite as lavish as the Earl's, it had been far better than what he got with the servants here at the school, and he wanted that quality again, and that variety. He wanted to wear a dignified uniform of fine wool and linen, not the rough one he'd been given here. There were strict standards to be upheld, after all._

_He'd find away to protect himself. There had to be one. He knew already that most people were not as intelligent as he was and that many of them could be manipulated, with a little bit of subtlety and patience. He might not believe in love anymore, but he certainly believed in comfort, in luxury, and in influence. One didn't have to have visible power if one had influence. Reading history had shown him that. Influence was undoubtedly better, because visible power and wealth could be a target, and they were unseemly for a servant. Influence required information, but that he knew how to gain. He'd observed his father carefully, and his father was an influential man who almost always got what he wanted. Loyalty was valuable, but only if it were deserved and returned, and he would not allow himself to be tricked again, as he had been by Master Geoffrey. Reginald would serve, but it would be on his own terms. The gentleman he served would have to meet the required standards._

***

It was nearing eleven that night when my mother's hand moved in mine. I squeezed, a gentle pressure on her fingers, and she responded with a slight tightening of her weakened grip on my own. "Some water?" she murmured, her eyes closed. Reaching for the nearby glass, I held it to her lips as her eyes opened. She registered some slight surprise as she sipped. When she was done she offered a tiny smile. "I knew you'd come, Reggie."

I set the glass down and moved to sit on the bed to face her, giving her a gentle hug. "Mum," I whispered, "I'm so glad I could be here to see you." I feared I might weep in my relief that I could speak to her one last time; After Uncle Cyril's words, I had not held out hope for this eventuality.

"You're a good boy, Reggie." Her voice was weak and trembling, so unlike the clear solidity of my memories of her. Breathing was obviously difficult and painful for her and it hurt to see her like this. "I don't care what anyone says. I've always loved you, despite what you are." She had never acknowledged it before and I could not maintain any semblance of detachment at hearing her say those words. Tears came and flowed freely, and I bit back a soft sob as I buried my face against her shoulder as I held her. She stroked my hair slowly. "I know you've always had to hide... make everyone think you were cold and unfeeling. I remember my Uncle Dorian; he was like you."

At this, I raised my face. She had never mentioned an Uncle Dorian before. "He... he was?" I hadn't known anyone else in my family had been like me. No one would have said anything for fear of the disgrace had his disposition been known, so I should not have been surprised. Sniffling, I wiped my face with a handkerchief.

Mother nodded. "It was a long time ago, so very long," she said. I had to lean close to hear her. "They..." Her lip trembled as she paused for a moment and tried to take a deeper breath. "It was so long ago, Reggie. They hanged him for being what he was." A jolt of absolute, horrified shock shot through me. "I always worried about you. I know they don't do that now, but I was always afraid for my little boy."

I had to swallow before I spoke, my voice ragged with emotion. "I'm sorry I caused such trouble and worry for you. I'm very, very careful," I said.

She nodded. "I know, son. That sweet young gentleman of yours, Mr. Wooster... stay with this one." She had never met him, but when I wrote to her I often spoke of our life and our travels together. "Your letters... so vivid. I can see how much you care for him. He's so good to you."

I nodded. "He is," I whispered. Taking a steadying breath, I said, "He canceled a very large fancy dress ball that was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and drove me out here himself."

This brought tears to her eyes; she knew precisely how rare and unlikely such generosity in an employer was. "I'm so glad you've found someone who loves you, Reggie. Be careful."

I was stunned into silence by that assertion. Did he love me? I couldn't think, couldn't even conceive the possibility right now. All I knew was that she was happy for me, that she loved me despite everything that had happened, and everything that I was. It was the only thing that mattered in this moment, and I felt like a lost child, weeping my heart out. My words, when I spoke, were cracked and broken but I did not care. "Thank you. I... you have no idea how much..." Breathless, I couldn't speak for a moment. "I love you so much." There was nothing else for me to say and all I could do was tell her I loved her and would miss her in a harsh whisper.

"So tired, Reggie," she murmured. I nodded.

I tried to compose myself again for her sake. "Sleep, mum. It's all right." I pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was like onionskin beneath my lips, so very dry and fragile. She turned her thin, sunken face and kissed my cheek in return. A moment later there was a soft tapping on the door. I looked up and saw the door open, with Margaret looking in.

"Reg?" she said. "Mabel and Charles are here. They'd like to see her."

I nodded. "Of course." Pressing one last kiss to my mother's cheek, I squeezed her hands gently in my own, brushed the tears from my eyes, and rose from my seat on her bed. "Goodbye, mum. I love you." I knew it was the last time I would see her alive. I only hoped she had enough energy left to say goodbye to Mabel as well.

As I approached the door, Mabel and her husband Charles entered. I hugged her very briefly. "Hurry," I whispered in her ear. "There's not much time left."

"Thank you," she answered, going to Mother's bedside. Mr. Biffen nodded to me and joined my niece at the bedside. I left them to her and walked silently down to the kitchen with my sister.

***

_Mr. Trentondike-Wibbley had departed hurriedly earlier that morning, looking harried and remarkably uneasy but assuring Reginald that he'd be back late that evening. His employer had received a telegram; that must have been the cause of it, but he'd not left the missive at the house, nor had he informed Reginald of its contents, both of which circumstances were somewhat unusual. Everything up until that point had been quite ordinary. Last night his employer had asked for his nocturnal company and Reginald had complied, reveling in their stolen time together before he'd gone to his own bed. They had shared a number of pleasurable interludes just like it in the past eight months, and the man had said nothing about any impending matters that were troubling him. He'd brought breakfast to his employer and there had been no hint of anything perturbing him._

_Reginald answered the bell near midday to find Mr. Trentondike-Wibbley's father, Lord Bunningstead, standing there with a thunderous expression on his wide, red face. He swept in past Reginald, who offered to take his coat and hat, but Lord Bunningstead refused with a cold, sharp word. As soon as the door was closed, Lord Bunningstead whirled to face him, barely holding back fury. "Where is my son?" he demanded._

_"Mr. Trentondike-Wibbley departed earlier this morning, My Lord. He did not inform me of his destination nor his errand, although he did tell me he would return late this evening."_

_"Blast and damnation!" the corpulent man spat. "He's run, then."_

_"My Lord?" Reginald was confused and growing more uneasy by the moment. Lord Bunningstead advanced on him and it took an act of will to remain impassive and not step back from him._

_"I know about you," Lord Bunningstead growled. Reginald raised an eyebrow, alarmed. "That bastard Breckenridge came to me this morning with a letter, written by my thrice-damned son, to blackmail me over his -- his disgusting behavior with you!" Reginald's mouth tightened, his heart stuttering. Mr. Breckenridge had been a close friend of Lord Bunningstead's son, though they had recently argued. The telegram must have been a warning; he'd been left to face Lord Bunningstead's wrath alone, and his mind flashed back to that black day when he'd been sent away from his own family, beaten and in disgrace. His stomach curdled. Lord Bunningstead didn't offer him time for a word, or even a breath, before continuing. "You are exceedingly lucky, Jeeves, that I have been able to find no hint of scandal about you or I would have you arrested and imprisoned for the perverted degenerate you are." That meant that Lord Witheringston was still concealing what had happened ten years ago, thank God. Lord Bunningstead reached into his pocket and pulled out a billfold, throwing a handful of banknotes on the floor in a quick and violent gesture. "That should be sufficient to shut you up. You will leave this house immediately. If a single breath of this reaches anyone's ear, I shall ruin you and I shall see to it that you **are** imprisoned. I will stop at nothing to see you behind bars for the rest of your natural life."_

_Reginald's eyes widened slightly and he shivered, breath catching, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. Lord Bunningstead had many very powerful political connections, and he was absolutely certain that the man could have enough evidence manufactured to convict him of any crime he desired, up to and including murder or treason. It was a an extremely potent threat and Reginald was not about to ignore it. "Take the money and go!" Lord Bunningstead bellowed._

_"Yes, My Lord." Left with no choice, Reginald crouched swiftly to snatch the banknotes. He looked back toward the kitchen; his rooms were behind it and he wanted to pack his valise quickly with what little he had, but Lord Bunningstead grasped him by one arm in a crushing grip, dragging him to his feet and propelled him savagely toward the door. "Now, or I'll have the police on you!" he shouted, leaving Reginald without the option. Discretion being the better part of valor under such circumstances, he fled._

_Three hours later, in one of the bedrooms available to members between situations at the Junior Ganymede club, Reginald sat catching his breath and taking stock of his situation. Pulling the handful of bills from the pocket of his morning coat, he flipped through them. At least Lord Bunningstead had been generous -- there was just over a hundred pounds here. It was nearly three years' wages at the rate he had been being paid. Reginald was furious that he'd been left to face Lord Bunningstead without so much a hint of what was coming, but he knew all too well that he'd got off easily. He had never believed his understanding with Mr. Trentondike-Wibbley to be anything more significant than a convenience for either of them, but he had hoped he might at least have been granted the consideration of a warning under such dangerous circumstances. He felt used and emotionally battered, a sacrificial lamb left so that his employer might escape more easily._

_Torn between hate for the man who had so casually discarded him and relief at his narrow escape, Reginald pondered his fate. He'd lost no irreplaceable items in his flight. He'd had no meaningful possessions to speak of anyway. Clothing could be purchased, books replaced, he had no photographs of family or friends, and he never kept copies of his correspondence; his memory was excellent and he never forgot a detail, so there had been no need. He had learned already that the life of a valet was insecure at best, and that a situation might end with no notice. Though his life had sometimes been precarious, he had cultivated an excellent reputation and had left his three previous valeting positions by his own choice and on his own time, gaining a better and more highly-paid situation with each move. He'd seen too many of his friends sacked, however, to think that he would be immune to such an event if circumstances conspired against him, as they had today. He would have no reference from this employer, which would be awkward but not insurmountable._

_He had to select his employers more carefully. With each one, he had learned more about what he was looking for, more about how he wanted to arrange his life. More about how he had to manipulate his circumstances and the men he worked for in order to remain safe. He hated having to conceal so much of himself and longed for an employer with whom he could finally relax his guard; he knew it was a childish desire, but the empty ache within him left him wishing for the impossible. He closed his eyes, disciplining his mind to calm, and crushing his foolish emotionalism. Reginald would move on and not look back._

***

I sat in the kitchen, next to the ancient cast-iron cookstove, trying to warm myself in the heat radiating out from its squat, black body. It was not that I was physically cold, but there was a chill in my soul that refused to abate and I sipped at strong, black coffee as I thought about what my mother had said.

She had forgiven me my trespasses; this had apparently happened years ago, though she had never said a word of it before tonight. We had corresponded steadily over the years, but this was not a thing that could be conveyed in writing due to the great risk of discovery. That she loved me I had known, but that she feared for my safety and had understood that I could not change my nature was a revelation for which I had been unprepared. It had shaken me to my core, and when she told me that she believed Mr. Wooster loved me, it had been too much to endure.

I had given myself away to her in my letters, long before I had realized the truth myself. She had seen my growing love for him in my careful words and she was happy for me. She wished us well and wanted me to stay with him. It seemed that she wanted me to have something akin to what normal people had with a wife or a husband -- someone who would love me and be with me for a lifetime.

But could I have that? Did he truly feel that way for me? Would he ever even want that?

Mr. Wooster had always been kind to me, but he was kind to nearly everyone, even when he would have preferred otherwise. His surprisingly rigid sense of honour, his Code of the Woosters, demanded that, demanded his generosity and his patience with those he counted as friends or family, or even strangers in distress. Kindness was not enough of a basis for any meaningful deduction about his regard for me.

That he cared for me was obvious in his actions of this day. No one I had ever worked for would have done this for me. It would have been utterly incomprehensible. At best, I might have been able to arrange for someone to take my place and be allowed leave to join my family for a few days, perhaps taking my annual holiday time early. The fact that Mr. Wooster had not particularly wished to host the gala was immaterial -- it was another case of his Code of the Woosters, and he had given his word to his friends that he would do so -- I had no doubt it would be rescheduled at some point. His compassion there, though, could easily be explained as being rooted in his own orphaning at a young age and his regret that he had been unable to say goodbye to his own parents. That he had driven me here himself rather than having me take the train was significant, however.

But if he loved me -- and I was beginning to believe he might -- when and how had it happened? The word 'love' had never passed his lips nor had he given any real indication of deeper feelings for me. I had almost always felt respected and appreciated by him, with the exception of a few incidents where he felt a need to assert his authority, but he was a proud man and occasionally inflexible -- not unlike myself in that sense, truthfully. I could not fault him for this, for he had innumerable redeeming qualities that made such incidents tolerable.

Yet I had not intended to love him. My motivations in cultivating an understanding with him had been purely rooted in my own need for comfort and security and for some measure of control over my own life, all of which I saw as a possibility in his employ. We had argued, but I had never feared he would dismiss me without cause. I had arranged his affairs so that he depended upon me; the slightest hint of difficulty had him appealing to me for aid in avoiding engagements and other types of troubles, from aunts to magistrates.

As a part of all this, I had often put him in awkward, even humiliating positions. I had manipulated him and used him to my own ends and, if I genuinely loved him, I could no longer do that. It was unnecessary and unjust, and he should be able to trust me. That I had deliberately deceived him for my own benefit was intensely disturbing to me at this juncture and I could no longer remain silent about it. I knew I would be taking a significant risk in speaking to him openly of this. If he did love me, that love might well be a fragile thing, broken beyond salvaging by my confession. I had to take this risk, though, in order to assuage my own conscience, so that he would know what kind of man served him. He had to be told, and to make any decisions about the direction our understanding might take, without my influence.

An examination of my own life and and my experiences of the past two years that I'd worked for him demonstrated conclusively that I needed him. I was happy working for him, and his company cheered and delighted me. I enjoyed the freedom that he gave me. I felt safer beneath his roof than I ever had anywhere else. The thought of losing that safety, even if love did not come into the equation, frightened me terribly. To think of losing the joy and comfort of his company as well only caused me to suffer even more anxiety, though I knew it was aggravated by the fact that my mother was dying in her room above me, the other members of my family watching over her, or sleeping, or pacing the sitting room floor in their own apprehension and disquiet. The tension in the flat was wearing on all of us, and tempers had been short in the hours I'd been here. I was feeling frayed and exhausted, despite the coffee and the heat of the stove. Everything that was happening only served to make me more strongly desire Mr. Wooster's company, and I wished again that he were here with me, that there was any way at all to have him here that would not reveal our understanding and endanger both of us.

If he would hear me out, if he did love me and would accept the genuine depth of my regret for how I had manipulated and used him, there was a small chance that I might still have an employer, perhaps even a lover, when this was over. I had to trust in his innate kindness and hope for the best.

***

_Finally shut of Mr. Todd, and sufficiently recovered from his severe bout of influenza, Reginald had both time and energy enough to look for a new employer. He'd spent the last few days perusing the Junior Ganymede club book, poring over the entries on gentlemen in need of valets in hopes of finding someone he could stay with for a few years. He'd had enough of clever men; while he had often been able to gain their respect and their ear, some of them simply used their intelligence to coerce and abuse others. Mr. Todd's financial abuses of his clients had been echoed in the abuse of Reginald himself. He'd added his own series of strong warnings to the club book under the entry for Todd, Montague. When the legal proceedings against that gentleman finally came to an end, he would no doubt serve a year or more in prison, and Reginald was pleased to have provided some of the evidence that had aided the government's fraud investigation of the man._

_No, he was not interested in clever. He needed a position that would allow him some time to recover from what he'd suffered at Mr. Todd's hands. Wooster, Bertram Wilberforce, seemed a likely candidate. The gentleman was some six years younger than himself. Orphaned at an early age, he would eventually inherit the title of Lord Yaxley; he was not one of those grasping, uncouth **nouveau riche** who wanted the trappings of wealth while possessing none of the elegance and grace of the nobility. Friendly, good-tempered, generous to a fault, and apparently slightly dim, he was inclined to frivolity that had included drunken nude bicycle riding, questionable taste in clothing, a fondness for playing modern popular music on the piano, and overly enthusiastic celebratory antics on Boat Race Night. He was a member of the Drones club, as well -- an institution not known for the sagacity of its members. One previous valet had noted that Mr. Wooster required a keeper: "Impressionable young fellow, rather too susceptible to the demands of friends and family. Could use a bodyguard."_

_Mr. Wooster would clearly be easily biddable. Reginald could live with that. He would, in fact, prefer it at this point. An intelligent and trusted valet could direct his gentleman toward suitable inclinations; he would often maintain not just the gentleman's home but his financial affairs as well. This afforded opportunities that could be abused, of course; he had known valets who had embezzled thousands of pounds without ever being found out, but Reginald disapproved of such tawdry, disreputable things. It left one open to blackmail and hefty prison sentences, and tended to impair one's ability to acquire further employment if one's indiscretions were discovered. Reginald already ran enough risks, with his marked preference for the male of the species; he had no desire for any additional imponderables in his employment. While he enjoyed the finer things in life, there was absolutely no need for misappropriation of funds when one could lead a suitable gentleman to willingly offer generous extra compensation for a job well done. He had suffered more than enough misfortune when he had let the offer of exceptionally high wages from Mr. Todd take precedence over a closer examination of the gentleman's personality defects, and he would not allow it to happen again._

_Reginald's own reputation for competence, excellence, and discretion had grown to such an extent over the years that he could choose his employers at will, rather than having to compete desperately for a position with anyone who would have him. Some of the gentlemen he'd worked for still regarded him with a species of awe at his capability and skills. Impeccable service had become an end in itself, and Reginald savored the influence he had gained through his efforts._

_A gentleman like Mr. Wooster would be very easy to impress, and thus to persuade and to lead. Solving his frequent but obviously extremely entertaining problems would leave the man grateful and this would provide opportunities for him to reward Reginald with the things he desired -- travel and holiday time and freedoms not usually granted to a valet. While he'd never actually met Mr. Wooster, several of the Junior Ganymede members had commented that he was a fine looking young man, much pursued by the women of his acquaintance. An agreeable appearance would only enhance the prospective position; Reginald was quite amenable to working for a handsome gentleman, even if the man was not of a like disposition. He regarded this as he might regard beautiful scenery; such things made one's environment more pleasant. Although the probability was small, if Mr. Wooster were also an invert, then persuading him to enter into an understanding between them would be even more enjoyable._

_Yes, he thought Bertram Wooster would be a suitable employer until something better appeared on the horizon. If he were fortunate, the position might be worth pursuing as a long-term option._

***

My mother died silently, the hour nearing three in the morning. Mabel and her husband had been with her at the time; sadly, Mabel only had a few moments to speak with her before she slept, never to wake again. When they brought word down to the rest of us, Catherine set to the work of preparing her body to be turned over to the mortician, while Margaret dealt with the other necessary issues. Everyone else was sent off to find sleep, or at least to try and rest before the funeral arrangements could be made.

Mabel and her husband offered to drive me to the inn where I knew Mr. Wooster was staying, but I needed to clear my head, and the walk of a mile or two in the chill and the drizzle would accomplish this admirably. There was a heavy, cloying scent of death wrapped about me like a cloak, and only this cold solitude could clear it from my nostrils. My head spun with memories, fears, and regrets as I walked, and the prospect of offering my confessions to Mr. Wooster did nothing to ease my mind.

I collected a room key at the desk and proceeded up two flights of stairs to the room that Mr. Wooster had acquired for us. As he had been aware that I would return at some point, I did not knock, for I had no wish to disturb his sleep. There was a dim bedside light on, however, and he was sitting on one of the beds fully clothed, with his shoes off, reading a book as I entered. He looked up at me and bolted to his feet, coming quickly to my side as I closed and locked the door behind me.

Without a word, he took me into his arms and held me, even though I had yet to remove my coat, and I was damp from the drizzle. I returned the embrace, too distraught to worry about getting his clothing wet. I had needed this all night and I had neither the will nor the desire to let go. We stood there, silent and motionless, for a very long time. Gradually, some of the tension and distress leeched from my bones and I could breathe again.

He stepped back slightly, looking me in the eyes. "Come to bed, old thing. You must be utterly knackered." Reaching up, he started easing my coat from my shoulders. I removed it and placed it and my hat and gloves in the wardrobe then loosened my tie. He began removing his own clothing as well. "I thought you would call me. I would have come to get you."

"I needed the walk, sir," I answered. He simply nodded and continued as he had been. Once we were both in our pyjamas, he took my hand and led me to his bed, making me lie down and joining me beneath the covers. I tried to settle myself, but my mind was far too restless; Mr. Wooster turned onto his side and wrapped himself around me, resting his head on my shoulder. I found myself clinging to him as though I were drowning and the warm fact of his body in my arms was the only thing that could save me.

When I buried my face against the column of his neck, his scent surrounded me and I was comforted by his solidity and the soft sound of his breathing. "If... If you need to talk, I'll listen," he murmured, hesitant. I nodded, knowing I should but not able to bring myself to do so just yet. His fingers moved slowly up and down on my back, soothing and slightly hypnotic in their effect. I made myself focus on that sensation, letting everything else fall away.

We lay there for more than an hour, awake but silent, I lost in my thoughts and he simply maintaining the slow, subtle motion of his hand. Finally, I knew I must speak. I could not take this kindness from him any longer without his knowing how I felt and what I had done to get this from him. "Sir," I said, and my voice rasped from the heaviness of my emotions.

His fingers slowed to a stop. "Hmm?"

I raised my face to look at him. If I spoke, I might lose him. If I did not, I feared I might lose myself. "I have had reason tonight to reflect on many things, sir, and there are confessions I must make to you, though I fear they might change your regard for me." If by some miracle they did not, perhaps I might finally lie in his bed with him to wake the next morning still in his embrace.

His eyes betrayed his confusion. "I'm not sure there's anything that could do that, old fruit," he said. With a shift of his weight, he eased me down onto my back and lay partially atop me. I tried to take comfort in this. "I've been worrying about you all night, feeling useless as an extra leg, and wishing there was something I could do for you and your family, but there was nothing at all I could think of. If listening will help, then that's what Bertram shall do." His body slipped down to curl about my side, where he could lie in comfort as we spoke, his arm still cast over my chest.

"Before I begin, sir, I must tell you that I do not expect you to return my feelings; even if you did, you might no longer wish to when you learn of some of the things I have done without your knowledge or consent." His head tilted, curious, but he said nothing, so I continued. "I was fortunate enough to arrive this evening in time to actually speak with my mother, sir. It was only your kindness and generosity that allowed this to happen."

Mr. Wooster's lips quirked upward and he nodded, pleased. "I'm so glad we arrived in time, old thing, I can hardly express it."

"Her words brought me to a realization that had slowly been forming within me for some time, sir, and I could no longer deny that..." I took a breath, steeling myself for the potential of rejection. "I could no longer deny that I had fallen in love with you," I murmured.

His eyes widened and his lips opened slightly. He made a quiet sound, as though attempting and failing to compose himself. I could not help my body tensing slightly as I awaited his response. "You... you love me?" he whispered, disbelief thick in his voice. I nodded and I suddenly found myself in a desperate, tight embrace, his face buried in my shoulder. "Oh, thank God!" he gasped, muffled against the pillow and my neck. "Thank you, thank you, I -- oh, Reggie, I didn't even dare hope." He kissed me soundly and I savored it, hoping he would still want me when I had finished everything I had to say. "I've been absolutely barmy for you for so long, but I never thought -- I mean to say, I didn't think you went in for that sort of thing, love and whatnot. You're always so serious and formal and... I... I thought you'd leave if I ever said a word about it. I thought it was all just a pragma-whatsit thingummy for you, a matter of convenience and no emotions need apply."

"It began that way," I admitted. "The plain fact is that when I entered your employ, I had been... I had been hoping that precisely such a situation might develop, and I deliberately encouraged you in that direction when I realized that your nature was as mine."

He regarded me for a moment, cautious. "So you wanted to find someone you could have that kind of an understanding with?" I nodded. "I don't see why that's a problem, old thing. It's not like you can take out an advert in the agony columns, what? 'Brilliant, efficient, inverted valet seeks gentleman of same disposition for pleasant carnal understanding' -- no, that really wouldn't do, would it?"

I couldn't help raising an eyebrow at his casual dismissal of my offense. Perhaps he had not quite understood my meaning. "I never made any of it clear to you, sir. I repeatedly arranged circumstances to my own advantage without ever declaring my intentions or asking if you were willing to embark in that direction. When I was seeking a new situation, I quite deliberately looked for someone whom I felt I could _manipulate_." I had to use that word; I had to make him understand the depths to which I had sunk in my pursuit of my goals. "I chose to enter your employ because your generosity and your innate kindness would make you easy to persuade to my own ends, sir. I have abused your trust in a most egregious way and I do not feel that I deserve your regard or your love, and for that I can only offer my most abject apologies and beg your forgiveness."

***

_When the door to 6A, Berkeley Mansions opened, Reginald could hardly believe his eyes. The young man before him was indisputably deep in the aftermath of an entirely too enthusiastic celebration the previous night. He smelled of stale smoke and alcohol, with a slight whiff of an encounter with the constabulary about him. His unmistakably expensive and elegant evening costume was in utter disarray, as was the flat behind him. The man's previous valet was patently incompetent, it was clear in every item that passed under Reginald's eyes._

_What struck Reginald most deeply, however, was how very attractive the young man was, even in this state of disheveled **extremis** \-- fair haired, blue eyed, tall and slender, with just enough muscle to be wiry, he was staggeringly handsome, if a bit vacant. Reginald was experiencing the most visceral sort of reaction to him, and had to steel himself to a granite impassivity lest he give himself away. If even half of what he had heard about Bertie Wooster's kindness, generosity, and general lack of intelligence was correct, this would be the easiest position he had ever taken, as well as one of the best-paid. If there was even the smallest fragmentary hint of inversion in the man, Reginald would find it and encourage it like some rare and precious orchid until it bloomed into pleasure for both of them. _

_Had Reginald believed in any higher powers, he would have been on his knees thanking the god of gentlemen's personal gentlemen for dropping an opportunity like this into his hands -- here was luxury, the security of a gentleman who would obviously need his guidance in every matter, more than sufficient wages for anything Reginald might desire, and very likely a large amount of personal autonomy and control over his own life and circumstances as well. Although he would always, naturally, perform to his own extremely high standards, it was an absolute certainty that the least thing he did would impress Bertie into something akin to worship, after having suffered such substandard service at the hands of his previous valet._

_When he'd administered his personal restorative mixture to the new young master, Bertie's astonished adoration shone from his face like the sun at midday. "You're engaged!" were the sweetest words Reginald thought he had ever heard._

***

"You do understand that I could never have suggested our current sitch to you, don't you?" he asked.

"Sir?" I did not follow his logic.

"I'm not the sort of chap who could ask his valet for something like that; it wouldn't be right because I'd always have felt like I was holding something over you if you said no. The _only_ way this could have happened, old thing, was for you to come to me. Does that make sense to you?"

I nodded. "More than you know," I replied. "But the fact remains that I manipulated you to get what I wanted."

Mr. Wooster sighed, obviously somewhat frustrated. "You love me, don't you, Reggie?"

"Yes, sir. Quite deeply." I was still trying to fathom the extent to which I was experiencing that particular emotion, and failing miserably.

"When a chap goes about looking for some beazel to marry, it's essentially the same thing, you know. One looks about, not just for a corking profile, but for someone who's willing to follow along and who has the qualities one would rather spend one's time around if one is going to end up gazing at them over the old eggs and b. every morning for the rest of one's life. Trust me on this, old thing; I've tried several times to get married and it just wasn't working. I'm much happier having ended up with you."

"But--"

"If I'd said 'no,' would you ever have tried to force me to do anything I didn't want to?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. "Beyond that whole editing my mustache, and the usual destruction of fruity ties or scarlet cummerbunds wheeze, I mean."

"Sir! Absolutely not!" I answered, horrified by the thought. "I would never--"

"Of course you wouldn't, Reggie. That's the whole point," he said, sounding remarkably irritated. "You're not that sort of chap at all! Really, old fruit, I'm quite desperately in love with you. And if you're in love with me, why are you trying so hard to convince me I shouldn't be?"

My heart melted at his capacity for understanding and forgiveness. "I was so very wrong about you, sir. When I began working for you, I had thought you like your peers."

He kissed me softly, the length of his body pressed against my own as he ran his fingers through my hair. "What do you mean by that?"

"Almost all of the gentlemen I have served over the years have had regrettable flaws in their character, sir. They have been common dross where you have been the purest gold. I have seen greed that ruined men's lives, and gentlemen whose hearts were filled with nothing but the most self-serving arrogance. I have seen callous indifference to the suffering of others, and have served men who have had the shriveled souls of tyrants. I know that I hurt you when I said that you were mentally negligible, sir, and for that I can only beg your forgiveness." A ghost of that pain passed over his face, but it was gone in an instant as he nodded to me. "I had believed it to be true at first, but as I grew to know you more deeply I realized that I had been incorrect and that what I had initially seen as... as stupidity" -- the word was painful to say to him -- "was nothing of the kind. You simply see the world very differently, and you speak from your heart, unguarded, where others would conceal their true thoughts. You have more kindness and caring in you than is possessed by a hundred of your peers."

"You really thought that?" he asked, pensive. I could see hurt and apprehension in his eyes and wanted only to vanquish those emotions within him.

"You have proved me blessedly wrong on every point, sir," I whispered, holding him close as I kissed his cheek. "I have never served a better, more honourable man."

***

_Reginald had known the day would be appalling when he answered the door of Bertie's flat to find Mr. Collingsworth Fittleby standing there. He had been unaware that Bertie was even acquainted with Mr. Fittleby, but it had been years since his last encounter with the man and Reginald maintained his practiced mask of impassivity while taking the man's **accoutrements** and escorting him into the sitting room to join Bertie._

_He had worked for Mr. Fittleby for the better part of six months. The unpleasantness had not begun until approximately five months into his employment, but the incidents had escalated until Reginald decided that he no longer desired to work under such conditions and had handed in his portfolio. Although Mr. Fittleby had obviously recognized him, he said nothing; this had suited Reginald, though he was concerned at the thought of Bertie socializing with the man. He was quite convinced that, had Bertie known the man's true character, he would not be associating with him at all._

_By half an hour into the visit, Mr. Fittleby had begun a subtle harassment, keeping Reginald busy attending to trifles. Items were dropped that then required cleaning of the carpet. Requests were worded with barbs beneath the surface. Aspersions were cast on Reginald's service and his attitude. There was even an extremely unsubtle grope at one point when Bertie had left the room for a moment. After luncheon had been served and cigarettes were being smoked, an ashtray had been edged off the side table onto the carpet. When Reginald tidied the carpet and raised the ashtray to place it back on the table, Mr. Fittleby 'slipped' and caused a painful burn on Reginald's wrist. He flinched only slightly, but Bertie had noted the interaction, eyes wide._

_"Jeeves, old thing, I'd like some tea, if you would?" The distress in Bertie's face informed him that tea was not the actual goal, and that he was being dismissed from the room to safety._

_Reginald nodded, relieved despite the pain. "Very good, sir."_

_He retreated to the kitchen and quickly iced the burn, then quietly crept to the kitchen door to hear what was going on. "...no idea what you think you're on about, Collie, but you've been running Jeeves ragged since you walked in the door and that bit with the gasper was utterly inexcusable!" There was genuine, if quiet, fury in Bertie's voice, and he did not allow Mr. Fittleby more than a few words in which to attempt his excuses. "I will not allow you to treat my man that way -- I don't care if you think you can abuse your own help, you're not getting away with it here! I'll not have it, and I won't have you back in my home. Quite frankly, Fittleby, you are **not** Drones material and I'll be letting the membership committee know just what sort of a bounder you are -- every dashed one of them has had Jeeves fish them out of some sort of soup and they won't like it when they hear how abominably you've treated him. I'll see to it you never get into a club anywhere in the metrop after this!" Their voices moved toward the foyer, continuing Bertie's harangue, and he heard doors open. "I assume you're capable of seeing yourself out," Bertie finished, stiff and angry, and then the front door slammed._

_A moment later, Bertie rushed into the kitchen, deeply disturbed. "Jeeves, old thing, I'm so frightfully sorry about Fittleby! I had no idea the man was such a cad. He won't be back, I swear to you. Are you all right?"_

_"Yes, sir," Reginald said, astonished that Bertie had taken up his cause with such vigor._

_"Let me see that," Bertie said, reaching for Reginald's wrist. "Good Lord, he really did burn you," he whispered, stricken. When he looked up into Reginald's eyes, his face was pale. "I was hoping I'd imagined it; you hardly even flinched." His fingers were cool on Reginald's wrist, but Bertie's concern was a balm for his soul._

_"The injury is a slight one, sir," Reginald assured him. "I cannot thank you enough for putting an end to the afternoon as you did."_

_"Should we get a doctor up here for you, old thing?"_

_Reginald shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. I have the appropriate first aid supplies here and I assure you, I will be fine." Bertie ended up hovering over him for the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening, concerned and attentive, until he was thoroughly assured that Reginald was, in fact, all right. It left Reginald with a great deal to think about in the solitude of his own quarters that night._

***

Mr. Wooster kissed me again, relieved by my reassurance, but I wanted him to know exactly why I felt as I did. "Do you remember Mr. Fittleby, sir?" I asked.

His face tightened and he quite nearly growled. "I'll never forget that bounder," he snapped. "He deliberately _hurt_ you, Reggie. How could I ever forget that?"

"Some years before I entered your service, sir, I worked for Mr. Fittleby."

"What?" He gave me a terribly confused look. "But if he knew you, why on earth did he do that to you?"

"I was in his employ for slightly less than six months. His temperament revealed itself slowly, and it was only during approximately the last six weeks of my service to him that he showed his true colours. He had approached me about reaching an understanding much like the one we share, sir, but for reasons I was unable to put a finger upon at the time, I was disinclined to such an understanding. Upon my refusal, he began an escalating series of harassments that would certainly have culminated in violence had I not left his service."

There was an expression of stunned anger on Mr. Wooster's face. "Good Lord."

"It nearly came to that the day I left," I continued. "As it was, one of my morning coats was irreparably damaged before I managed to exit the premises."

"How can people act like that, Reggie?" he asked, plaintive and puzzled. "I mean, to anyone at all, much less toward a paragon like you."

"This is the very reason why I love you, Bertie," I whispered. I had never used his given name before, always wishing to maintain a certain distance in our relationship, but I could no longer bear to have that barrier between us. Something akin to a glow suffused his face at my use of his name and he kissed me fiercely before allowing me to catch my breath.

There was wonder in his voice when he spoke. "I thought you'd never call me by name," he said softly. "I've wanted so much to hear it. It's just the most topping thing; you can't imagine how that makes me feel."

"Until tonight, I never felt I had the right. I'd imagined what we had was only carnal, that I had no love within me to give to anyone, but you have been an absolute exemplar. You have no idea how very different you are from your friends and from the other men of your class, Bertie."

He regarded me with confusion. "I don't know what you mean, Reggie."

"Most people are thoughtlessly cruel or callous," I said. "You are thoughtlessly kind and generous. You always have a kind word or a gratuity for the people around you; you are unfailingly willing to help anyone who asks you for aid, even when you would prefer not to do so. A person's social class doesn't seem to particularly matter to you; I have seen you offer kindness and recognition to people who are treated as invisible by others like you. You are gracious and friendly to everyone around you -- lift attendants and waitresses, shop girls, the servants who tend to you."

"Well, I don't see what's so bally impressive about giving someone a polite thank you or a few pence if they've done something for me, Reggie. I mean to say, I always thank you when you're doing your job, don't I?"

I nodded. "Indeed, Bertie, but that is precisely what I mean. By all rights, I should be invisible to you when I am not offering immediate service to you, as should most of the servants you encounter. And most gentlemen of your class would treat us as such. We are frequently regarded as nothing more than furniture by the majority of your peers. It is, sadly, not uncommon for servants to be treated as poorly as slaves, even today. It has happened to me in the past, though I have been fortunate enough to be in a position which allows me to leave if I so choose. You saw how Mr. Fittleby treated me, even though I was no longer his employee; he did not believe you would even notice his actions, Bertie. He, and others like him, seem entirely incapable of the human compassion that flows so generously through your soul."

"I say," he murmured. "Invisible? I mean, how does that even happen? It's not like people are transparent, like jellyfish or whatnot."

"Are you aware, Bertie, that your aunt, Mrs. Travers, employs thirty-five servants at Brinkley Court?"

He blinked and shook his head. "Really? Thirty-five? That's... I mean to say, I know Seppings, and Anatole, and I've seen a couple of maids, and the footmen who serve at dinner. There's a gardener or two, I suppose. But thirty-five? You can't be serious. Where would they all fit? And what on earth would everyone do all day?"

He was ignorant because it had all been hidden from him for his entire life. When a household is run efficiently, the residents never know because nothing goes wrong for them to notice. Food is presented on dishes and silver that are always sparkling, clothing is always clean and pressed, beds are always made, and the fireplaces are always free of soot and ashes. "There are people you never see because they never venture from belowstairs, Bertie, or because their work is done before the household rises in the morning. There is a housekeeper who supervises the female staff members, and there are laundry maids and kitchen maids, an underbutler and a hall boy and half a dozen gardeners, along with the staff at the stables where your aunt keeps her horses. There is a man who keeps her dogs, a page who attends your uncle's office, and a mechanic who keeps the automobiles fueled and in good repair. There are several others whom I have not mentioned, as well."

"By Jove, I never realized," he said, astonished. "I feel like a complete cad."

I shook my head. "You should not," I assured him. "When we are doing our work correctly, we are never underfoot and would never be in the same room with you unless we were required for something. It would be considered quite improper for a household servant who is not directly working with you -- as I do -- to come to your attention in the first place."

"Oh."

"You have no cause at all to worry about this, Bertie. You have no idea how highly regarded you are by the staff at Brinkley Court."

"Really? I thought they all thought I was loony." His tone was self-deprecating and slightly resigned.

I couldn't help allowing a soft chuckle escape. "Perhaps, but they also like you and respect you for your kindness. A bit of eccentricity in a gentleman like yourself is more than tolerable when he is possessed of so many other redeeming qualities."

"Oh," he said. "Well, then. I suppose that's not so bad, really."

***

_He had been working for Bertie for three weeks when they received a telegram summoning them to Brinkley Court. Once Reginald had settled Bertie's things in the room where he would be staying and placed his own belongings in the small chamber he'd been assigned to share with one of the junior footmen, he descended to the Servants' Hall, where he had been asked to meet with Mr. Seppings, the butler, to receive instructions regarding his role in the household during his visit._

_"Mr. Seppings." Reginald offered a slight bow to the most powerful member of the household staff. "My name is Reginald Jeeves, sir. I am Mr. Wooster's new valet."_

_Seppings nodded. "Yes, Mr. Jeeves, I'm aware, thank you. Please, come into my office."_

_"Of course, Mr. Seppings." He followed the man and was offered a seat in the butler's pantry, which he took with a word of thanks. They discussed the household schedule, the persons to whom Reginald could turn if he had questions or for specific needs, and what he would be required to do for his part in the dinner service. He was quickly acquainted with the location of those rooms and places he would need to know -- the laundry drop, the main pantry, those spaces both indoors and outside where the servants were allowed to take their leisure when they had time after their duties had been completed. It was all quite standard and Reginald was pleased by the apparent order of the household's management._

_"And now, Mr. Jeeves, I wish to impart to you some information regarding young Master Bertie." The man's demeanor changed, and he seemed to expand slightly, projecting an air that Reginald might have found intimidating if he were a few years younger or less experienced. Under the circumstances, he simply regarded it as reason to be particularly attentive so as to smooth his working relationships with the household staff as much as possible._

_"Certainly, Mr. Seppings," Reginald responded, adopting a patient and receptive air. He had no doubt that this would be valuable, as Bertie had apparently been raised by his aunts, and Mrs. Travers had been one of those who had shared custody of him during those years. "I would greatly appreciate any advice you might care to offer."_

_"You have no doubt already seen that Master Bertie is... somewhat eccentric," Seppings began. Reginald nodded. That had been apparent from the entries in the Junior Ganymede book, and a bit of harmless eccentricity was a welcome change from what he had seen in some of his previous employers. "His previous valet, Meadowes," Seppings spat the name as though it tasted of bitter wormwood, "was a thief and a scoundrel. Be advised that the staff here is quite fond of Master Bertie. Your reputation is impeccable, Mr. Jeeves, and I trust that your actions toward him will always be of the highest standards."_

_Reginald nodded. "Of course, Mr. Seppings." They were obviously quite protective of Bertie, which sentiment spoke very highly of their opinion of his master._

_"We are all aware that Master Bertie is, shall we say, not the brightest candle in the box. He requires a firm hand for guidance, but he is of an exceptionally kind and generous disposition and a position with him should be treated as the privilege that it is."_

_"I can assure you, Mr. Seppings, that I shall treat him with every bit of the respect he deserves." It was a statement that could be read in many ways; Reginald had already developed a certain rather visceral fondness for his master, but he had also seen firsthand how a man who initially seemed the height of propriety might turn on a servant for little or no reason whatsoever._

_The tilt of Mr. Seppings's eyebrow told Reginald that his message had been understood for what it was. "Master Bertie lost his parents at a very young age, Mr. Jeeves. He was raised in part by Mrs. Travers, which means he spent a great deal of time here every year. While she is fond of him, it could safely be said that he is not well treated by his family; he has far too frequently been bullied into cooperating with them, and with those young leeches he regards as his friends. He is far too honourable and, unfortunately, too weak-willed a man to refuse, even if it were in his best interest. I will speak plainly with you. He needs someone who can watch over him and protect him, Mr. Jeeves. Do not abuse your position with him."_

_That he could certainly agree to, whole heartedly. "I shall not, Mr. Seppings. He seems like a fine young gentleman and I have been enjoying my position with him thus far."_

_"Excellent." Mr. Seppings nodded, satisfied. "Master Bertie takes very much after his father, who was one of Mrs. Travers's brothers. The elder Mr. Wooster was a light-hearted, generous, kind gentleman with a deep-seated sense of honour. Mrs. Wooster was a similarly charming and delightful young lady, whose loss we all still deeply regret. Master Bertie's father was highly regarded among the staff, though his sisters felt that he was wasting his life and that he should have found some useful occupation. His death at such an early age only served to solidify that belief and, as a result, they seem to have developed a horror of Master Bertie following in his father's footsteps. He is constantly being pressured to marry, despite the fact that he is not particularly suited to the institution. I do not mean that he is inconstant, but I do believe that he would be deeply unhappy if he were to marry the wrong young lady, and I do not wish to see him in that state."_

_Reginald wondered if Mr. Seppings might be hinting at another reason that Bertie might be unsuited to marriage, but he would never voice such a suspicion. "I shall do my best to see that unsuitable young ladies are gently discouraged, so as to assure his finding the right person. I have no wish to see Mr. Wooster unhappy." That was certainly true, and indefinite enough that he would not incriminate himself by revealing too much. Regardless, if Bertie married, Reginald would be forced to seek alternate employment, and he was quite determined to make this very suitable situation a permanent one._

_"You could be a great help and a steadying influence on him, Mr. Jeeves. I know that you are an intelligent and responsible young man. Your resourcefulness is nearly legendary, and I am very pleased that you have seen fit to take a position with our young gentleman," Mr. Seppings said. "It's been too long since he has had anyone to look after him properly."_

_"Thank you, Mr. Seppings," Reginald said, knowing that he had successfully passed an extremely important examination. "You may rely upon me."_

_"I shall," Mr. Seppings said, rising and offering a hand to Reginald. "I'll see you before dinner service, Mr. Jeeves. I look forward to a long and cordial association with you."_

***

Mr. Wooster seemed reassured by my statement that he was liked and appreciated by the Brinkley Court staff. I knew that he sometimes wondered if his friends really cared for him at all. A recent incident involving a lengthy nighttime bicycle ride had left him feeling unloved, by his own words, and I regretted my part in that, for it had by no means been my intention. He sighed softly and nuzzled my cheek as we lay together. "Are you doing at all better, old thing?" he asked, quiet and tentative.

"Somewhat, Bertie," I said. "I'm relieved and extremely grateful that I was able to see my mother tonight, but this conversation has also lifted a great weight from my heart, and that has helped more than I can express."

He nodded. "I needed to do _something_ , Reggie. I couldn't just stand there and watch you work while something this important was happening. Even just the thought of it sticks a dashed sharp blade through the Wooster heart." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I really do love you, you know. I have for an age or three. Possibly since one of those -zoic thingummies. You know, paeleo- or ipso- or what have you, when the dinosaurs were biffing about the scenery making things difficult for those Neanderthal chaps in the caves. Primordial ooze might not have been too early a date to set for the start of it, what?" I could not help but laugh at his delightfully mangled metaphor. "I'm quite serious, old thing," he added, his fingers trailing over my chest in a gentle, continuing caress. "It was months before this whatsit we have got started."

I found that surprising. "Indeed?" I had not seen it. Having only come to my own realization that very night, it was difficult for me to understand how he could have accepted and hidden such emotions for well over a year, particularly after we had begun our physical relationship. He was a source of constant wonder to me, always revealing some unguessed depth or detail that I had never suspected.

"Oh, absolutely. Without doubt. Rather snuck up on me, though, you know, as might an un-belled cat upon some poor, unsuspecting bird -- the bird in question being Bertram rather than some unfortunate canary, of course." He smiled at me, bringing his hand up to brush against my cheek. "I had such a hard time keeping it from you, sometimes." There was an undertone of sadness in his voice at this and I felt a spike of guilt arise at the thought that he had believed I would not want his love. The unfortunate truth was, until recently, I would most likely have found the concept discomfiting.

"I always found myself wishing you'd stay with me," Mr. Wooster said, the sorrow in his voice appearing in his eyes. "My bed felt entire acres larger after you'd gone back to your lair, and far too chill and lonely." He trailed one fingertip along my lower lip and I pressed a kiss to it.

"I can only offer my deepest regrets, Bertie," I said, twining my fingers into his hair and bringing him to me for a slow, apologetic kiss. "I certainly never meant to cause you any distress. My reasons for maintaining that distance seem somewhat irrational now."

"Well," he said, "I could see perhaps being concerned that we might get an early-arriving Aunt barging in but, really, they do tend to knock first when they appear at the Wooster flat, and you're always up so early anyway that it never quite made sense to me."

"That is part of it," I said with a nod. "Our safety is of great concern to me, naturally. Yet I had more personal reasons for this."

His head tilted. "What kinds of personal reasons? I mean, if it's all right to ask, old fruit."

"If we are to... to deepen the understanding between us," I answered, hoping very much for more, "then you deserve to know why I felt as I did, and what has changed." He nodded and made a small sound of assent, waiting for me to continue. "You obviously understand that our professional relationship could not help but colour our more personal interactions; you noted that you could not have approached me about beginning anything between us because you feared it might be seen as coercive."

He sighed. "I've always worried about that," he admitted.

"I assume you had guessed that this was not the first time I have had such an arrangement with an employer."

There was a nod, felt more than seen as he rested his forehead against my temple. "The thought had occurred. I didn't think you'd made a habit of it, but I suppose I'd have been surprised if it had never happened before me. You are a rather toothsome cove, after all, and not everyone you worked for could have been stone blind."

"Removing to my own quarters after an encounter was one of the ways in which I was able to draw a sharp division between my private life and my role as a valet. I felt it necessary in order to maintain some control over my own person and to guard my privacy. To allow that line to blur overmuch would have made my professional life much more difficult." He offered another quiet affirmation and I continued. "It has sometimes been a very difficult boundary to negotiate," I said. "I've always found it somewhat disconcerting to be called 'Jeeves' in the midst of an act of a carnal nature and have generally preferred to dispense with appellations altogether at such moments in order to avoid such awkwardness." I turned my face to him and looked in his eyes. "You are the only one of my employers I have ever allowed to call me by name when we are together," I told him.

His eyes widened slightly. "I say," he whispered. "I suppose that explains why you never even called me 'sir' when we were in the thick of things, much less calling me Bertie."

"Precisely."

"I'd always thought it a bit cold, but when you put it that way, I do understand. It must be so awfully rummy."

"This is also the reason why I have never allowed any employer with whom I have shared an understanding to take the dominant role in an act of intercourse."

"Oh," he said. "I thought you just didn't like it, Reggie. It's not that I've ever minded, of course -- I mean I quite enjoy having you take me like that -- but I know some chaps simply never do take a liking to it."

It was so like him, not to read anything into my actions beyond a potential dislike for the act itself, and I found myself loving him even more. "Some men would have seen it as a manifestation of their control over me, Bertie. I actually find it quite pleasurable, but to allow someone whom I served to take that liberty with me would, very likely, have had at least a subconscious influence on their day to day interactions with me. There are so many other forms of sexual pleasure that I have not particularly missed it, and there have always been other opportunities for me to enjoy the act without its being fraught with implications for my position as a valet."

"I never knew it was all so complicated," he murmured. "We can't have you all fraught. But things have changed, I take it?"

"Love changes everything, Bertie," I whispered, kissing him deeply. I felt an immense sense of relief at having finally been able to speak of these things to someone who would understand and accept them. He returned my kisses with a gentle enthusiasm that stirred me despite my physical and emotional exhaustion.

"Does this mean you'll stay with me tonight, then, and not go skulking off to the other bed later?" he asked, nibbling at my lips before he kissed me again.

I nodded. "I would like that very much," I said. "There is nothing I want more than to be able to spend every night with you like this."

His voice shook slightly when he spoke again. "Is... Is there anything that you need, or... well, that you want from me tonight?" he asked, and I knew what he offered me. It was something I had sought all my life and never believed I would find.

With his face held gently between my hands, I nodded. "Make love to me, Bertie."

His breath caught and he closed his eyes, shivering slightly. "Let me take care of you tonight," he whispered, looking me in the eyes as one of his hands moved slowly down my side to my hip. "You don't have to do anything at all, Reggie, just relax and let me do everything." There was heat in his voice and his body moved against my own; I needed this from him and nodded, giving my consent to anything he wished.

Very little was said for quite some time. There were whispered words of love as he removed our pyjamas, his hands and mouth moving everywhere on my body. My back arched as he sucked at my nipples and my prick, suffusing my entire being with warmth and pleasure that cut through my exhaustion and turned it to an erotic languor. I made no attempt at all to direct him or hurry him; I knew I could trust him and that he loved me and had only my pleasure in mind. To surrender to him in the midst of my emotional turmoil was a comfort such as I had never before known.

He held me, one arm wrapped around my waist as his fingers carefully opened me, their slick friction offering me a promise of delight. His mouth was hot on my prick as his fingers moved, and I gasped his name, burying my hands in his fine, soft hair as his lips slid up and down my shaft. He moaned, sending a jolt of intense sensation through me as the sound rumbled in his chest. My hips moved of their own accord, pushing my prick more deeply into his mouth, and he sucked at me so hard that he nearly brought me off. I gave a strangled cry as he released me and kissed my belly.

"Here, love," he murmured. "Roll over for me and let me have you." His hands guided me, trembling slightly, and he pushed at one of my thighs as I lay prone beneath him, opening my legs for him. The weight of him on my back was delicious and I savored the rough texture of the hair on his chest and the smooth slip of his skin on mine as he settled himself between my thighs. I welcomed the feel of his hard, thick cock as he penetrated me, pushing in slow and deep in an almost endless thrust, groaning as he moved and gasping his name as his hips met my own. "Oh, Reggie," he moaned, his body flexing and moving on mine, holding me close as his hands caressed me. He rained nibbling kisses on the nape of my neck and my shoulders and I raised my hips up to meet his, my body begging for more of him.

"Please, Bertie, please," I whispered, unable to articulate anything beyond my deep need for him as waves of intense emotion built up within me. This was good and right and essential and I should have seen it months ago; I should have trusted him, should have trusted those glimmerings at the edge of my awareness that drew me so strongly to him. Each thrust brought me closer to the edge of bliss and I rocked back against him, wanting him deeper, wanting him to take more of me, my body shaking as my end drew near.

He thrust harder as I drew nearer the abyss, rocking my body and the bed as I fought to hold back my release. I wanted it to last; I wanted to feel him for hours, taking me with all his strength and holding me right at the peak, but my body could not maintain that precarious balance and I broke, burying my face in a pillow to muffle the agonized cry of the orgasm that overwhelmed me. He followed me quickly, his body stiffening as he groaned in the throes of his own completion, and we sank slowly into the bed together, gasping for breath, his body limp atop my own.

That release had cracked open the barrier I had been struggling to maintain to hold in my grief, and I wept openly as I lay beneath my lover. He seemed to understand instinctively that these tears were not the result of our lovemaking, but rather of the intensity of my loss, and he held me through it as night faded slowly into the dim grey of a rainy, impending dawn.

When, at last, I had wept myself into exhaustion, he brushed his cheek against mine. "You should try to get a little sleep," he murmured. "Let's get you out of that sloppy spot, shall we?"

I nodded my agreement and he helped me rise, taking a brief moment to clean both of us of our issue before we curled together in the clean bed. I was too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to worry right then about the damning evidence on the sheets. Secure in my lover's arms, I finally slept.

***

_The day had been a long and harrowing one, involving an unlikely sequence of events punctuated by the pursuit of a drunken boxing kangaroo, a tumble into a large and extremely prickly briar thicket during a downpour, and another of Bertie's narrow escapes from the matrimonial clutches of Miss Madeline Bassett, aided by said thicket. Reginald was wrung out and aching, covered from head to toe with scratches, and wanted nothing more than a bath and enough physical pleasure to take the edge from the day before he collapsed into an exhausted sleep._

_Bertie was, if anything, in even more distressing condition, being coated quite liberally with mud in addition to everything else. The bright red shoes that had so offended Reginald's sensibilities were, blessedly, beyond salvaging. He found a species of comfort in the thought, though the heated glances that had become more common between them in the last several weeks had left him hoping for an entirely different sort of comfort tonight. There had been moments when he was convinced that the atmosphere between them had crackled and sparked._

_He ran Bertie's bath and then assisted the young master in removing his ruined suit, standing slightly closer than would have been strictly proper as he did so. Bertie watched him, curious but vaguely uneasy. Reginald could see the signs of interest in him: dilated pupils, a slight increase in respiration, the appearance of a slight blush beneath the mud on his cheeks, a barely noticeable tilt in Reginald's direction. He let his touches linger slightly, drawing a shiver from Bertie. Finally, certain that Bertie wanted this as well, he traced his fingers over the arc of Bertie's cheekbone and leaned in to kiss him._

_Bertie's mouth was sweet and warm, melting beneath Reginald's lips, and he pressed for more, finally slipping an arm slowly about Bertie's waist and drawing him closer. Bertie shivered and gasped, then groaned softly and placed his palm on Reginald's chest, reluctantly separating them. Puzzled, Reginald waited for the moment it took Bertie to catch his breath. He could not possibly have misjudged, given Bertie's reaction._

_"I-I'm sorry, Jeeves, but I don't think I can do this right now, old thing." Reginald flushed, mortified at his misstep, but Bertie continued, not seeming to notice. "It's not that I'm uninterested, you see -- not at all. I am. Quite desperately, I mean. Interested, that is. It's just, well, we're both thoroughly knackered and..." he looked away as he spoke, "and, well, I'm not sure if this is all quite right. It's not fair to you at all, is it? I mean to say, I don't want you thinking that this is something I would ever ask of you. This is absolutely **not** any part of your job, Jeeves. Not under any circumstances." He looked up and met Reginald's eyes. "I'm not like that," he said. "It wouldn't be at all **preux** , what?"_

_Reginald blinked, confused. Bertie couldn't possibly believe that he was pressuring Reginald in any way, could he? "On the other hand, I suppose it's possible that you're just moved to pity over the young master's plight and, well, that doesn't seem particularly sporting either, I must say. I really don't want to be an act of kindness, if you know what I mean." Bertie shook his head in a decisive gesture. "I'm entirely too muddled to make any sense of it tonight, Jeeves, so I really have to decline." Bertie's hand caressed Reginald's chest where it rested between them. "Now, on a third hand -- assuming anyone had a third hand, of course, though I can't imagine why one might have such a thing -- if there is, for some unfathomable reason, a genuine Jeevesian interest in the Wooster corpus and, well, if you offered under other circs, I wouldn't say no. I just need to be sure it's all clear heads and above board and whatnot. If it's at all awkward, we never have to speak of this again. Silence of the grave and all that rot. But if you ask me again on another day, when we're not half out of our minds from a terrible mess of a misery like the one we've just had," he kissed Reginald's lips gently, "I shall most certainly say yes."_

_"Of course, sir," Reginald said, suddenly deeply reassured. One of his previous employers would have felt entitled to demand such a service from him on a night like this, and the fact that Bertie had made a very strong statement that such a thing would never happen between them made a striking impression. It only served to enhance the man's already considerable attractiveness in Reginald's eyes. "I shall most certainly take the matter under advisement."_

_The next night, when Reginald made the same offer, it was accepted with great enthusiasm and considerably more skill than he would ever have suspected. The results delivered thorough satisfaction for both of them, but the confused silence and the hurt look in Bertie's eyes as Reginald rose to return to his own room haunted him for days.  
_

***

Mr. Wooster insisted upon attending the funeral with me, two days after my mother's death. Enough time had to be allowed for several family members to arrive from distant homes, and this allowed us time to speak with Mabel and Charles regarding the matter, between those times when my assistance was required in dealing with my mother's estate. Given that Charles had, in fact, been 'an old school chum' of Mr. Wooster's, it would be somewhat unusual but possible for him to attend as a friend of the family. No one but my mother had known that Mr. Wooster had brought me; I had let it be assumed that I had taken the train and would not correct anyone's assumptions in that regard.

Mabel raised an eyebrow at the situation, though Mr. Biffen himself was quite oblivious to the implications of Mr. Wooster's presence. She had been willing to concede to my request despite understanding what I was asking of her. It left a tension between us, but I hoped that at some point she might accept this part of my life. We had, after all, brought her and her husband together after they had been parted in New York, and so she had always been well-disposed toward Mr. Wooster. He sat with the Biffens during the funeral, two rows back from me, as the vicar droned his sermon, but just knowing he was there helped as I struggled with the emotions of the day.

Gerald obviously knew the true reason for Mr. Wooster's presence, and he was very cold to him when they were introduced after the burial, but I had warned Mr. Wooster that this was a possibility and he dealt with the situation with his customary grace. That he was a true gentleman was clear in his every word and action, though I knew he would have unkind words for Gerald when we were finally home alone.

His reception by the rest of the family was, if anything, neutral and polite. Where Gerald was certain of Mr. Wooster's role in my life, I could see that my other siblings at least suspected, though they said nothing. He stayed near me as much as was safe, but also spent a good deal of time with my niece and her husband in order to enhance the illusion that he was there for his friend. Charles was easily distractible and so Mr. Wooster was able to have all of us in close proximity during much of the time we were with the family.

Despite the awkwardness of the entire situation, I was deeply grateful for his presence. He maintained a very careful veneer of our professional relationship, though I wished I could have a thing as simple as his hand in mine for some measure of comfort. I knew I only had to endure for a few hours; we would leave after the funeral and go back to London, where we could address the changes in our relationship.

By the time the ordeal was over, I was grateful simply for the silence of the ride home, and to be sitting next to Mr. Wooster with his hand resting on my thigh. He said nothing during the drive, knowing that I needed this time to settle my emotions after facing my eldest brother's veiled hostility for so long, but when we arrived at home, he wrapped me in his arms and held me until the chill in my bones finally thawed. "I'm sorry it was such a trying day, old thing," he said when he finally released me. "Bad enough that your mother's gone, but that brother of yours was quite the coldest chap I've met in ages."

"He knew," I told him.

Mr. Wooster nodded. "I thought so, but one can't really take issue with it under the circs."

"No, of course not."

He kissed me and tugged me down to sit with him on the chesterfield. "It seems to this Wooster that you might need a bit of the old sun and sea, Reggie, to get you back to your usual fish-fed self. What would you say to a couple of weeks in Spain, hmm?"

Mr. Wooster rarely suggested traveling, unless he wished to go to New York, and I was surprised by his offer. I had tried myriad times to interest him in such a destination, but he preferred London over any other location, and removing him from the premises was always a challenge. "Are you certain, sir?" I asked, cautious.

He slipped an arm around my shoulders. "Let's not go back to that whole sirring wheeze just now, shall we?" he said. "I don't want to have you messing about with the fancy dress thingummy for a bit yet, and if I were here in the metrop, it would be expected of me, so if we take a couple of weeks and scarper off for blue seas and sand, no one will be able to attempt to strangle me over the sudden cancelation, what?"

I nodded. "There is that," I admitted. I really had no desire to turn my mind to planning for a _fête_ that he had equally little desire to host. "Perhaps it would be appropriate to take a short holiday before turning our attentions to that particular festivity."

"I thought you'd see it that way," he said, smiling. "And now, Reggie, why don't we just bung you into bed where you can sleep off some of that sibling-induced headache you've got." I had not mentioned the headache but he had once again seen what I had thought concealed. "If you like, I'll give you a back rub."

I returned his smile. "Indeed, Bertie, that sounds most agreeable." I thanked him with a kiss.

~~fin~~


End file.
